


Mission Set: Creative Recalibrations

by Darke_Eco_Freak



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Connor (Detroit: Become Human) Has No Genitalia, Finger Sucking, Frottage, M/M, Marathon Sex, Multiple Orgasms, Oral Fixation, Post-Peaceful Android Revolution (Detroit: Become Human), Service Top 9s, Upgraded Connor | RK900 Has a Penis, Worship, interfacing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-16
Updated: 2020-11-16
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:02:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27587855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darke_Eco_Freak/pseuds/Darke_Eco_Freak
Summary: Connor was designed with a single-minded determination wired into his nerves. The RK800 was built to hunt deviants, and nothing else, that was the only mission that mattered but Connor's a deviant now. Cyberlife's mission is defunct and he's free to assign his own mission, it's too bad he chooses everything as his mission. The DPD, New Jericho, deviants, Hank.Oh but what a good thing RK900 is looking out for his predecessor. And even better that Nines has the perfect solution to Connor's problem.
Relationships: Connor/Upgraded Connor | RK900
Comments: 9
Kudos: 92





	Mission Set: Creative Recalibrations

Connor thinks. And he thinks. And he thinks himself into spirals that twist and tear and choke him dead. Worrying about Hank’s health and happiness. Fretting over his public perception and standing with Jericho. Caring about co-workers’ opinions, and superiors’ opinions, and opinions that, frankly, do not matter.

Connor lets himself worry until he’s too stressed to think. Until all he can do is dance his coin across his knuckles while his overloaded processor stutters and lags its way through the crush of data. Staring at nothing, doing nothing, two seconds away from soft rebooting.

Nines watches, silently. Watches and says nothing, as his predecessor and deviator struggles with all that freedom has to offer. Nines doesn’t understand it, but he doesn’t say anything about it, because he trusts Connor’s own judgement. Even if he does believe that judgement is clouded by imperfect cognitive reasoning.

He lets it be and lets Connor be, until one day Connor’s missing and no one knows where he is. Hank doesn’t know, and they have a scene to get to. Gavin Reed doesn’t know, despite keeping tabs on Connor for heckling purposes. Not even the receptionist, Lacy, knows where Connor’s gone.

It takes a dedicated fifteen minutes of searching, a freeze on all other open missions, and some luck, to find Connor. In a…janitorial closet. Sat sandwiched between a wall and a mop bucket, with bottles of industrial strength bleach scattered around his feet.

Connor doesn’t say anything when he’s found, eyes too wide and caught in the headlights for that. Nines doesn’t say anything either, too many preconstructions running to spare any time for vocal conversation. The only sound, only thing moving, are Connor’s fingers, flipping-catching-tossing his coin frantically.

 _Ting-ting-ting!_ Clinks between them, and Nines understands.

“Please continue your calibrations, I’m sorry for the interruption,” he says, and backs out of the closet.

And, when Connor returns in five minutes, looking distinctly unrumpled and fresh, neither of them say anything. Hank grumbles, but they leave for their scene. Gavin Reed rolls his eyes and makes an off-colour comment, and Nines makes sure to hip check Reed’s desk on his way past. Coffee spills, Nines’ smiles, and he plans.

Realistically, if he considered efficiency and nothing else, he could make his offer the second Connor clocked off for the day. Six o’clock and he could send a private message, watch Connor’s LED cycle yellow, then red, and smile at the wide brown eyes that would inevitably turn on him. He could smirk and wink and nod in that slowly satisfying way that made humans so uncomfortable, show Connor that he _was_ serious.

But no, but efficiency isn’t the only mission parameter to keep in mind. There needs to be a measure of subtlety, some…seduction? Connor was…Connor deserved nothing but the best. He’d done so much—he _was_ so much, and Nines refused to present anything that did not match all Connor was.

So, he does not proposition his predecessor that afternoon, or that night, or the day after, or even that weekend. No, Nines takes his time. He gets more “ _touchy-feely_ ”, as Hank would say, and spends more time making sure Connor takes a break from his cases. To drink thirium in the break room or talk about Sumo or just _shoot the shit_.

Nines makes sure to praise Connor for jobs well done, because they are always done immaculately. There isn’t a single case Connor’s fumbled since his activation and Nines is in awe of that. The ruthless efficiency wrapped in a dauntless empathy that Connor performs without hiccup or hitch.

 _He_ was created to be the military consumer model to Connor’s domestic prototype, the RK900 was supposed to be _superior_ , but he isn’t. He isn’t even close. Connor is a blazing star, a flaring hypernova searing Nines blind, but he can’t look away.

So he doesn’t, he _really_ doesn’t, understand why he finds Connor in the same supply closet eight days, eleven hours, and fifty-six after the first incident. Why Connor sits, eyes blank, lips thin, as he performs useless recalibrations with his coin. Nines doesn’t understand why Connor never responds to Reed’s constant heckling, why he never _does_ anything against the man.

Nines doesn’t understand why Hank foists most of the caseload off onto Connor, or why Connor accepts it. He doesn’t understand why Connor puts up with the snickers and sneers from human co-workers, the whispers and ducked heads from androids. Why Connor never-never puts any of these people in their place, even though he could, even though he would be in the **_right_**.

Nines doesn’t understand why nobody else seems to see Connor the way he does. But, he is selfishly glad they don’t. That **_he_** is the one Connor lets sit next to him in the closet. Cramping in close, legs tangling, head falling onto his shoulder. _Nobody_ else gets this, only him, he’s the only one Connor trusts enough, cares about enough, **_likes_** enough.

“Your recalibration exercise wasn’t designed for deviant stimulus input,” Nines hums at some point, rubbing his cheek against Connor’s soft hair. Softer than his own, made to curl and only held in place by gel and careful maintenance. Nines wants to see that fall away, all of Connor’s careful maintenance, all of his strict rules and restrictions.

He wants to see the deviant hunter and the saviour and Connor- _Connor- **Connor**_.

“I know,” Connor murmurs against his collar, words quiet, voice tired.

“I think I may have a solution,” Nines says, lifting a clean white hand for an interface. Their very first since Connor activated him and deviated him in the same pump cycle.

“Okay,” Connor says against his skin, and takes his hand, and they interface. The information exchange is sleek and efficient, like everything else about their models. There aren’t any fumbling words, no misinterpretations or misunderstanding. Everything is laid clear cut and plain.

But Connor still takes a second to process, two to understand, three to drop the exchange with a trembling breath puffed against Nine’s throat. Hot, like a human’s, but without anything verbal coming with it. No hum, no moan, nothing but clean breath and Connor shuddering against him.

“Okay,” Connor whispers, voice unsteady, stress level increasing ten percent before plummeting fifteen.

“Okay.”

* * *

RK900 lives in an apartment just outside the Jericho controlled part of the city. Far enough away from the community to have his privacy, but close enough to utilise their resources and always be on call should any issue arise. Connor lives with Hank. Because Hank offered and Connor hadn’t been able to say no, he’d wanted to stay with Hank, and Sumo, they were his family.

But, right now, Connor wishes he had his own apartment, a place under his total control where he would have complete privacy. He thinks his stress level would be lower if Nines had been able to come to _his_ apartment instead of him going to Nines’, but that was not an option and Connor had agreed to this. Nines had offered, been so generous and kind as to offer, and Connor should’ve said no.

It was too much; he was _fine_ visiting the closet every few days. He’d found the most comfortable spot to sit, and the best way to arrange the supplies around him to clear that spot. Hank had agreed (non-verbally) to cover for him whenever he took his break. Though Hank also said he didn’t need to be covered for during his break, it was alright to have them.

Regardless, Connor was fine, he was alright…he was flicking his coin. And standing outside Nines’ apartment, ten minutes early, but he hadn’t wanted to be late and seem rude. 900 didn’t have to do this, and Connor didn’t think he was worth the effort, but he was far from ungrateful. He would hate to seem if he was.

From: RK900; You’re early.

Connor winces, involuntarily but he does it all the same. The wireless message bounces in his head, sizzles along artificial receptors. He shouldn’t’ve come so early, that was just as rude as late, Nines had said ten o’clock, he should’ve come at ten exactly.

From: RK900; Please come in.

From: RK900; I’ve unlocked the door.

The disengaging of the lock is soundless, Connor knows it is, but his mind provides him with an entirely inaccurate _click_ that echoes uncomfortably. If this were one of Hank’s old horrors, the door would creak ominously and this would be his last chance to back out and return to safety. Beyond the door was a terrifying unknown, at his back was a safe familiarity.

Except this wasn’t a horror movie, ahead was an offer of help, behind him was the closet and cramped recalibrations that didn’t even work anymore. Where was the harm in trying at the very least?

“Thank you,” Connor says, out loud, as he walks through the door with more confidence than he feels. Straight into the living room, still sparsely filled with only a single couch and a large potted fern in the corner but still bursting with personality. Connor likes this room, there are paintings on the wall that Nines chose from Cyberlife’s vacant offices, the carpet is an eclectic mix of patterns that vibrate with clashing theme, and no two walls are the same colour.

He likes this room, and its inhuman qualities, and his nerves tell him to sit on the couch and stay on the couch for the rest of the night. Of course Nines could have chosen the living room for their…interaction, but Connor thinks Nines would prefer a more traditional approach. And the bedroom at least had a bed, though neither of them needed one, positioning would be easier on a larger horizontal surface.

“Connor?” Nines asks, aloud, from the bedroom doorway, and Connor…Connor doesn’t have breath to catch, no matter what his uncanny valley simulation program might imply. Connor doesn’t _need_ to breathe, even if his chest rises in its mimicry, but somehow, he doesn’t think any other expression will do.

When Connor turns to look at his successor, standing in the doorway, his breath catches in his throat and his taxed processor stalls. Because there is Nines, looking impossibly attractive in a black turtleneck and painted on jeans. Because here is Nines, looking at him with laser precision, as though _Connor_ is his mission.

Because here comes Nines with every too smooth step, slinking like no human ever could and most androids could never hope. And all of his military focus is trained on Connor-Connor-Connor.

“Have you changed your mind?” Nines asks when he’s within touching distance. When all he’d have to do was take one more step and he would be pressed up against Connor. And what would that feel like? Connor can’t help wondering.

They’ve touched before, in the crammed little closet, and that was nice. Very nice. Nines was a grounding weight in his lap, a cool touch on his stripped back hand. The RK900 had been built to last longer, go faster, be more ruthless than the RK800. Prototype or not, RK900 had always been meant to replace him, and how would that translate in a tactile sense?

Would Nines be cool to the touch? Bio-components operating at lower temperatures at all times? Or would he be warmer? Capable of sustained activity for increased periods of time with less wear on bio-components and burning of thirium. Hot then. Hot to the touch, hot against him, searing and burning into tactile memory.

“N-no, no I didn’t, I just…” trails off, hangs between them on a wisp of breath. Just what? Connor doesn’t know.

He’s never done something like this, though Cyberlife had equipped him with a full working knowledge of sex and intimacy. His technicians had been willing to go to any lengths to keep the deviant crisis under control, and simultaneously prepare him for any scenario a detective might encounter. Sex hadn’t been a major concern, but it had been a consideration, so yes, Connor knows what fucking is, but he’s never done it himself.

Too busy after the revolution, at his job, as a leader, working with Markus. And he hadn’t cared prior to deviating, there’d been no need.

Now though, he almost wishes he did have some experience, of the first hand nature. Because Nines had offered to…to fuck his head empty, clear his processors long enough to recalibrate and ease the cognitive load. And Connor had said yes. Why had he said yes?

“You’re in control Connor, I won’t do anything you don’t want,” Nines murmurs, calm and collected, sounding so much more in control than Connor thinks he could be. Nines even closes the two inch gap between them with a kiss, soft and chaste at the corner of his mouth. And it…it’s nice.

One little kiss might be the nicest thing Connor’s ever felt and he—

“ _More_ ,” Connor begs, and he doesn’t mean to sound that desperate, but…he is. He’s desperate, for another kiss, for a touch, for Nines to take him out of his head and let him just _exist_.

Amanda would…she would call it a weakness, frown disapprovingly and say it was yet another symptom of the deviancy virus. Look how far he had fallen, _him_ , the Deviant Hunter himself. Overwhelmed and out of control, too deviant to perform simple calibrations and analysis without a near shutdown.

Pathetic. Worthless. That was what Amanda would tell him, all with a single frown.

But RK900 is giving him lips parted in awe, eyes fixed on him and nothing but him. Here Connor is with his successor’s entire attention, being looked at like he’s worth the world.

“Please,” he whispers, before he loses his nerve, before he tells Nines that this was a bad idea and he shouldn’t have entertained it at all. Before Nines stops looking at him like he hung the moon and stars.

Selfish, such a selfish thing to want. He _shouldn’t_ , but Connor can’t help himself. He’s reaching for Nines and Nines meets him halfway, fingers tangling together so tight, no chance to break the grip.

“Of course Connor,” Nines breathes, and fills that lonely space between them.

* * *

RK900 doesn’t know what it’s like to deviate. He was found in a lab, deep in the belly of Cyberlife, the only working model of his line. Connor had activated him, Connor had deviated him, and Nines doesn’t consider himself indebted to his predecessor, but he is mildly obsessed.

If mild can be applied to the warmth in his chest when Connor moans for him, low and sweet and immediately stored to off-site memory. If _mild_ is what he feels when Connor throws his head back and shows off the elegant curve of his throat, free for Nines to kiss and nip and sigh again. Nines doesn’t know _what_ he feels, if there’s some human word for the sinking warmth in his stomach, but he doesn’t need a word to like it.

And he _does_ like sighing into the hollow at the base of Connor’s throat, likes mouthing at the artificial boning beneath and lapping at warm synth skin. Connor tastes of bodywash and fabric softener [Vanilla and Lilac], tastes like clean and android [Heavy Duty, CyberClean™], but Connor’s not just any android.

Nines nips, hard enough to damage standard synth-skin, but Connor’s doesn’t waver. He digs his fingers into Connor’s hips, hard enough to dent commercial plasti-steel, but Connor’s doesn’t even creak. He was built better than every other android wandering Detroit’s streets, he was built to be the _best_.

And Nines can appreciate that. Appreciate what Cyberlife put together but Cyberlife hadn’t made Connor the _person_ he was. They’d given him his voice, but they hadn’t pitched it breathless and needy. They had placed every individual mole on his body, littered across his skin like star charts leading to divinity, but they hadn’t anticipated the cool wash of night under those stars when Connor blushed that distinctive android blue.

Cyberlife had made his predecessor pretty, but **_Connor_** was gorgeous.

“Nines,” Connor sighs, long and slow, murmuring his name like a benediction, “you’re incredibly good at this.”

And the question hangs above his head, from Connor’s tongue. A question that isn’t a question because Connor’s more hesitant about asking those now. Personal questions can go both ways after all.

“You’re easy to rile up,” Nines hums, sucking and nipping and knowing there's no chance of bruising but trying anyway. He thinks Connor would look lovely in bruises, the dark purple of them would bring out the warmth of his eyes. Draw all the attention to his delicate throat and up-up to his lips.

So easy to follow, too easy, Nines chases a line of kisses back up and catches them at Connor’s mouth. Another kiss, gentle and deep. A kiss that tastes like analysis fluid and cleaner and breathy sighs that dance in his mouth, electric.

They don’t need to breathe either of them, so they kiss can last long-longer than any human’s could; a human would be dizzy, a human would pass out. Nines doesn’t need to stop so he doesn’t, Connor could pull away but he stays, and their kiss slips deeper, _filthy_. As Connor cups the back of his head and presses him as close as close can be, as Nines licks into warm-clean- _Connor_.

An alert pops up, about overheating, and Nines ignores it. He keeps his hands locked on Connor’s hips, keeping them flush together. A warning blares, about bio-component wear, and Nines barely notices it. Connor’s licking into _his_ mouth, sucking on his tongue with a dexterity that leaves him dazed.

A flash of red and Connor’s the one pulling away, a hand on Nines’ chest to stop him following. Steam vents from Connor’s mouth, wisps from his nostrils, and is so _perfectly_ inhuman. Nines feels steam slipping past his own lips, filling up his own throat, but he only has eyes for his predecessor.

RK800, Connor, with eyes the warmest brown. RK800 51, Connor, whose blue blood flush washes his mole dotted cheeks. Connor who looks at him, watches _him_ , with the careful calculation of the once immaculate deviant hunter.

Nines wonders, dazed as he’s pinned by that precision, what it would’ve been like to be hunted by Connor. His predecessor who’d had a hundred percent success rate up to and not-excluding his own deviant defection. Connor had saved human lives and negotiated with deviants, he had tracked down Jericho and won the revolution. 

What had Markus felt finally coming face to face with his own model successor? Had he cared who Connor was? Had he felt the same electric fuzz that Nines does?

“We should move to the bedroom,” Connor rasps, in a voice that’s husky and low and buzzes so lovely. Nines sighs into it, melts into the sound, lets it echo through his processors.

He answers, something between a sigh and a low-frequency whine: Yes. They should move to the bedroom, that would be ideal, the smart thing to do. But he doesn’t want to move from this spot, this space where Connor’s pressed close and there’s nothing between them. Nines wants to bask in this, just this, even though there’s so much more he had planned.

Nines would like that, to stay here, but tonight wasn’t about him. This is for _Connor_ , and **_Connor_** asked to move to the bedroom, so Nines takes him there.

Lifts easily, one hand under a thigh, the other staying possessively on a hip. There’s no stagger to his gait, no weaving as they kiss again. Softer, barely a kiss at all. Connor licks at his lips, the corner of his mouth, analysing Nines’ skin and getting: Nothing.

As he carefully planned for course. There’s nothing but analysis fluid in his own mouth, nothing but cashmere and synth-skin over his chassis. There are no extraneous, overwhelming, or over-complicated stimulants for Connor to analyse and overload his processors with. Nothing for him to focus on but the here and now.

The feeling of Nines’ chest pressed against his own, the brush of steam still venting from his mouth. If they engaged an interface right now, Nines is sure he would find a torrent of data relating to himself and only himself. Not the background hum of the ac, not the faint sounds of his neighbours, not even the ever present danger assessment programs.

There would be none of that, only Nines. And isn’t that a heady thing? Doesn’t it shudder down his steel alloy spine and settle warm in his plasti-metal bones?

The bed, is nothing special, but the sheets are 100% silk. Something he indulged in simply because he could, simply because his model hadn’t been designed with comfort in mind. Nines lays Connor out on his red silk sheets and immediately stores the image to every memory bank at his disposal.

Because Connor is gorgeous, because Connor is divine. Because Connor’s blue flushed throat bobs around a swallow and his kiss blushed lips part around a pant. Because his shirt is hanging out of his pants with some of the buttons undone, but Nines wants to see more. He wants those jeans _off_ and he wants that tie _gone_.

He wants Connor naked in his sheets, sliding against the lush silk, too fucked out to think about anything but him. The feel of his skin, the taste of his tongue.

“Touch me,” Connor whispers, barely whispers, “please.”

And Nines can’t help but do as he’s told.

* * *

When it comes down to it, there are few but distinct differences between the RK800 and RK900 models. Nines was built for military applications, particularly in the efforts against Russia in the Arctic. His chassis foregoes the signature white of Cyberlife models for a predominantly black housing, something separate from the company that revolutionised the world.

The 900 model is also tougher, built to withstand sustained combat and harsh weather conditions. Connor couldn’t disable Nines without heavy duty artillery, couldn’t overpower or overwhelm him either. Not through calculated attack or preconstructed confrontations, the 900’s combat protocol was far more advanced than his own.

And Nines is taller. He towers over Connor constantly, at work when they stand together and discuss cases, in the closet when Nines sat himself in Connor’s lap. His successor is bigger than him, designed to be intimidating, and Connor thinks he would be, if he didn’t also look like he belonged on his knees.

Yes on his knees and between a pair of freckled thighs, mouth hung open, eyes lidded low. There’s something so _right_ about it. About Nines right here, leaning into his touch and dragging his cock along Connor’s leg. The tactile sensation is blissful, the drag of synth skin against synth skin, the smear of thirium based lubricant, even the slick sound of it.

 _Nines_ looks dazed, half out of his mind, but Connor’s the one floating. Lost in the sensations of right here and right now and Nines-Nines-Nines.

There’s nothing but his beautiful successor on his knees, ready to please. Was _this_ what humans had wanted to keep? This unwavering devotion? This dedication? Connor moans, breathy and low, and thinks he understands. He doesn’t want Nines’ anywhere but here, he doesn’t want to think about Nines doing this with anyone but _him_.

That’s selfish, very selfish, and not what he should want, but Connor can’t remember why selfish is bad. His sensors are humming electric, flooded with input that his processors can barely keep up with. Secondary sex routines, ghost copies of traci protocols, his own white knuckled grip on Nines’ nice silk sheets.

He can barely keep up with it all, and his skin’s glitching away. Bare for Nines to drag his black housed fingers along. Peeled back and exposed, in so many ways. Connor’s glad he wasn’t equipped with standard genitalia. He wasn’t at first, when Nines peeled himself out of his too attractive clothes and Connor saw how exactly to scale the 900 series had been made.

The 800 wasn’t like that, hadn’t been given that, despite the lingering sex programs. Connor’s crotch was smooth, nothing between his legs except soft synth skin bordered by hard chassis plates. And he’d almost decided no, then and there, how would this work if they weren’t physically compatible?

But Nines hadn’t let him get that far. Had kissed him quiet and engaged an interface so deep Connor could feel the ghost of his own lips through Nines. And he’d—he’d understood. A little. A bit. Of how—of what…

“No thinking,” Nines hums, reaching up-up to Connor’s face. Palm against his cheek, thumb tracing his lips. Connor doesn’t hesitate to open his mouth and let Nines’ fingers in, lets the taste of plasti-metal and thirium lubricant ground him, and takes advantage of his only feature superior to his successor’s.

Before, when he was still only a machine, oral analysis was just a tool to use, not something to dwell on. Connor could taste, had every flavour profile that Cyberlife could sequence, but none of them had ever been relevant to the mission. What was the point of tasting blue blood, or red, or anything else he could find at a crime scene? All of it was extraneous data that he didn’t need.

Now though…ohh now Connor taste the distinctly sweet tang of thirium and the sugar aftertaste it gives anything it touches. And Nines’ fingers are sweet-sweet-achingly sweet.

Biting into powdered pastries and guzzling pure honey. Coating his throat in chocolate and drowning in syrup, mmm but Connor wants more, please-please more. And Nines gives him more, so much, so happy. Fingers sliding deeper, along Connor’s tongue, holding it down until he can only whine, until he _drools_.

It’s only analysis fluid but it’s still slick and sweet around Nines’ fingers. The fingers brushing the barest back of his throat. _Fuck_.

Connor doesn’t have a gag reflex, what would be the point? But he wishes he did. Wishes he could gag on Nines’ fingers instead of taking them so easy, wants to choke and forget everything but the burn of that.

Then Nines’ kisses the sensitive connection of thigh and pelvis and Connor keens. Eyes glitching out, colours degrading to—to…

“Connor?” Nines is asking, soft and far away, through a direct connection. He’s; stroking Connor’s thighs, and fucking his mouth, and staring up at him with the softest eyes that should be blue. Connor knows they’re blue, but his pleasure-glitched eyes see grey. And they see black, and they see a streak of thirium down Nine’s throat that should be blue, blue on black, but it’s grey instead.

Connor starts—he starts to sit up, to process the alerts blaring in monochrome across his eyes, but Nines gets there first. Nines brute forces his way as second admin and shuts them all off, anything non-critical gets put on standby, and critical gets routed to him instead. So Connor doesn’t have to deal with them, so Connor can focus on this, just this, instead.

The slide of fingers in his mouth, press of lips close-closer to his smooth crotch. Something that’s ahhh a blessing, a reprieve from the…all the feedback. So much feedback from oversensitive skin, too much, so much. A genital attachment would overload him.

Ohh but he might overload anyway because this is— _Nines_ is: mouthing at his thighs and kissing with nips that shudder up his hips. Nines is digging fingers into the crease of his le-l-leg. Sle-nder fingers that slot so perfectly in place, ready to pry the joint free. Would that hurt? Would it ache-throb- ** _hurt_**?

Would Connor like it anyway?

“Anything you want,” Nines purrs, a jungle cat rumble that misaligns Connor’s spine. As he _squeezes_ and _bites_ and Connor’s jaw _drops_.

* * *

He’s gorgeous. He’s perfection. He’s Connor and he’s all Nines’ just for a night. What a divine night.

Connor’s first…orgasm, because there’s really no other word, his first orgasm catches them both off guard. Jolts through Connor like an electrocution, second-hand buzzes through Nines’ like an aftertaste of heaven.

Connor’s back arches and his mouth falls open on the sweetest sound. Something like a moan, halfway a whine, entirely wreathed in static and electronic chatter. The hand in Nines’ hair locks up and the skin under his fingertips disables entirely, leaves clean white housing and pulsing blue veins, but the skin under his lips remains perfectly in place. That skin isn't a simulation and how curious that is, how wonderful. 

Through their interface, he can see Connor’s eyes haze out, pop-crackling with misread data while he vents steam from every seam; mouth, nose, select joints and ports. And enters a force recovery mode. Nothing dangerous, not even concerning, just a few seconds of quiet that Nines can take to vent his own systems and consider what else.

Whatever Connor wants, of course, but what could that be? More of this? More of Nines worshiping him the way he deserves? That would be nice, he was already on the way to a force recovery himself. From watching Connor’s pleasure, from watching _Connor_.

Brown eyes so black, brown hair curling soft. And a flush so perfectly human, so perfectly not. Blue instead of pink, but rushed across his cheeks and down his chest. His moles stood so bold against the blush blue and Nines can’t help but reach up to touch. Stroke one underneath artificial ribs, another at the top of a treasure trail, one more under a pert nipple.

Nines takes his time, thinks his way, as Connor comes back online piece by overwhelmed piece. He has Connor’s palm on his cheek when his gorgeous predecessor gasps back to full alertness, and those steady fingers grip his jaw so ready. Fingers set to the joint, curled up into the delicate underside.

The 900 model was designed for war but Connor had already won the world. With these efficient hands, with that panting mouth.

“You’re gorgeous,” Nines croons when audio processors are back online, and knows they’re functioning when Connor flushes again. Bright blue across his cheeks but ruddier down his chest, showing along synth skin and white chassis alike. It’s a lovely sight.

“So are you,” is rasped out, borne to him on a voice so wrecked though there are no vocal cords to damage. A vocal processor yes but it would take more than a minor shutdown. Nines isn’t specifically sure how much it would take to damage any extraneous hardware on the 800 model but he is very curious to find out.

As he peels Connor’s hand away from his jaw to kiss the palm, as he ruts his leaking cock against Connor’s shin. As he soaks in the blatant affection-arousal-attraction his predecessor has for him. Him, Nines, who came after the Revolution, who was built for a warfront he’ll never see.

Connor could have anybody in the world, deserves no less, but here he is praising Nines. Letting Nines hold him, touch him, pleasure him. The privilege is heady. Almost intoxicating, if he knew what intoxication was.

Tonight is for Connor, but Nines is the real winner here. And he’d be content to spend the entire time on his knees, mouthing-kissing-sucking at the smooth skin between Connor’s legs. Nines would be more than happy to edge his Connor over another orgasm, and another, and so many more.

But no, but Connor tightens the grip on his jaw and leads Nines up. Up-up onto the bed, up-up along the mattress until Connor’s curling hair splays upon a pillow and Nines can’t help but steal another kiss.

One that’s too much, a kiss he whines into like a wounded thing, because oh, because he’s so lucky. How is he so lucky?

Connor’s fingers never leave his jaw, they glitch and peel away, they press hard-harder until Nines can feel the seamless segments of them, but they never lose contact. One single hand is all it takes to keep Nines right where Connor wants him, in a kiss that makes his pump stutter.

Nines wasn’t the one that needed his head cleared, emptied out, scooped out, cleared, but that’s what Connor does so effortlessly. A curl of his tongue, a slide of his thigh, and Nines is locking his trembling muscles so he does not collapse. Not that collapsing would be terrible, he would fall onto Connor of course and more contact is far from a bad thing.

Nines would commit every crime for just a little more of this.

“Nines,” Connor hums, blinking cat-slow, and Nines perks up. Ready for an order, ready to comply.

“Yes Connor?” ghosts past his lips, barely more than a breath, and Nines has to lick his lips. He can’t help himself. He has to lick the taste of Connor off them, analysis fluid and sweet. Connor is so sweet and clean.

“Fuck me, Nines,” Connor breathes, and knocks the air right of him. Knocks the sense from his head and stop-stalls every process in his body.

 _Fuck_ me, Nines.

Fuck _me_ , Nines.

Fuck me, **_Nines_**.

* * *

The words are out before he registers them.

“Fuck me Nines.”

And his legs are over Nines’ shoulders before he can try to take them back. Not that he wants to, he meant them, means them, but…but wanting is still so new. Getting is even newer, but then his gorgeous successor drops low, mouth at his throat, cock on his thigh.

“Yes Connor.”

The first slick slide of Nines up-up between his legs, along the smooth, too sensitive stretch of skin is…it’s…

“Nines,” puffed on a vent of steam.

It’s his eyes glitching to monochrome, to shades of grey, to spots of static as Nines starts to move. Drag his cock back and forth, rut against too sensitive skin.

Oh, there’s skin there. Ohhh, there’s skin there. Not simulation, not peeled back. A patch of synth skin c-c-conn _ected_ directly to his nervous system and pleasure protocols. Connor can’t—he doesn’t, and that doesn’t matter.

Nines snaps his hips, once, hard, a full drag of his cock from tip to base. Synth skin against synth skin, catching and rubbing and _feeling_ so much. Connor chokes, knows he does, because he feels the stutter of his throat, but all he can hear is the crackle of processors overloading, the sound of his own pleasure burning.

Connor cums, again, arched against Nines and lost in a haze of stimulus, an overload of it. Too much stimulus, so much pleasure.

He feels every sizzling nerve as his entire system overheats, logs the pump-thump- _rush_ of blue blood through blue veins, before a second force shutdown knocks him out. Ohh but he gets to savour it as he fades. The sensations, too much and so much, taste of sweet burning.

Rebooting comes slower the second time, processors stretched thin from the first and trying to keep pace with the flood of stimulus Nines continues to drown him in. There’s too much when Connor goes under, Nines fucking his smooth crotch, and there’s too much when Connor comes back, Nines fucking his slack mouth.

Fingers halfway down his throat and short, jittering thrusts between his thighs. Legs spread wider now, past the point of dislocation for a human, only a twinge of stretch and tension for him.

Connor blinks back into colour and there’s Nines. Staring at him with eyebrows pinched together in vague concern and focused concentration. His pace hasn’t faltered and the wisps seeping from his mouth are…well quite attractive.

This time Connor initiates the interface, it’s easy enough. Nines is touching him everywhere, plastered against him, sunk deep inside. Connor opens the connection and nearly overloads again on the spot. Because oh, because _Nines_.

_Connor is everything, Connor is the world. So lovely spread out in red. Deserves to feel pleasure and only pleasure for the rest of eternity. Skin so warm, smooth and soft, feels divine. Face so handsome and eyes so dark, glazed over with lust and-and-and maybe affection?_

_Wants that. Wants affection, Connor’s affection. Wants to be wanted, if only for this. Gladly give whatever Connor wants. Just for a night or only at night. Whatever Connor wants. Anything anything_.

Disjointed thoughts crash into him, all swollen full of emotion, _attraction_. To his face is easy, he was modelled handsome. To his body is easier, he was built perfectly. But Nines is attracted to…to _him_ , above everything else. Plainly and simply Connor, and _that_.

That, and the feedback of Nines cock _~~his cock~~_ hard and aching-throbbing pressed against something so good. Piece meal thoughts and deviant emotion sends Connor over the edge again, headlong into a shutdown that tastes like satisfaction and adoration.

* * *

Connor is at his fifth overloaded orgasm before Nines’ control breaks. When the feedback loop of double pleasure and feeling his own cock drag along ~~his own~~ Connor’s too sensitive skin becomes too much for him. Nines, with his muscles locked and his chest heaving, cums against his shuddering predecessor

The splash of artificial ejaculate catches him by surprised, though it shouldn’t, though there’s been an alert counting down to this inevitability. Inevitable because Connor was…Connor’s pleasure was…

“Connor,” is all Nines’ stutter-lagging processor can spit out as he drowns in waves of pleasure-pleasure-pleasure. Not something his model was made for, of course something Connor gives him regardless.

A satisfaction that roils in his plasti-metal bones, that splatters against his stomach and Connor’s, that nearly buckles his locked arms. He doesn’t—not like Connor, doesn’t force shutdown, but he, he can’t _think_.

There’s only the wet of thirium based discharge and the hot of his overworked components, of Connor under him. There’s the wet of Connor’s mouth, the squeeze-suck-pleasure, and the hot of blue blush as Connor reaches up to cup his cheek and hold him through his orgasm. Not shuddering or moaning, but just as lost to the daze as if he were.

His predecessor, already half depleted himself, still has that—that presence of mind, selfless self to hold Nines and coo softly at him. Words that he cannot processor or log but he still hears them. The gentle tone, the low pitch, a rumble that shakes his wet fingers, the ones out of Connor’s mouth, resting on Connor’s cheek.

Black plasti-metal on white, RK900 and 800. Nines was supposed to surpass Connor.

“Good boy,” Connor whispers, crackled through a overworked vocal processor, slurred around too much pleasure.

“Such a good boy for me, Nines,” Connor croons at him, and Nines lets himself collapse. Lets his face sink into the space of Connor’s throat, lets Connor’s legs fall off his shoulders and himself fall between them.

Humans were idiots.

* * *

They continue through the night. Connor on his knees, thighs squeezed tight for Nines to fuck between. Connor with fingers curled tight, breaking tight, in the headboard and riding Nines’ face. Tongue dragging so wicked-perfect across his crotch, hands wrapped around his thighs and rocking him, guiding him.

Nines, oh Nines, with his pupils blown black and nostrils flared, venting steam with every breath. Nines, gorgeous Nines, gnawing on white veined knuckles while Connor sucked his cock. Logging the taste of Nines’ synth skin, sweet thirium discharge that would be flavourless to a human.

When Nines came, on his face, down his throat, Connor could even pick apart the individual hormones flooding Nines’ system. Artificial dopamine and oxytocin, drips of serotonin, trickles of norepinephrine, all of it coalescing on Connor’s tongue, in his mind.

There was no jitter in his skull, no irrational urge to hide himself somewhere dark and quiet. No push to do anything more than lay with Nines, barely conscious after another mind glitching orgasm. To slip into a low power mode, that Amanda would have scolded him for, and simply bask in the afterglow.

There are no windows in Nines’ bedroom, Connor’s not sure exactly why, but he’s floating too high to care. He doesn’t know something but there’s no compulsion to find answers, no heckling-prickling uncomfortable feeling urging him up-up and out-out.

Nines’ bedroom doesn’t have windows and Connor appreciates the calm darkness that gives them. His internal clock keeps him updated, as ever, and he knows the sun is on the cusp of rising, that the city is starting to move, the chill of night is breaking, but there’s no reason act on it. No reason to peak his face out of Nines’ soft hair and leave the nest of silk sheets and soft blankets they’ve made for themselves.

New sheets, fresh blankets, because the original set was thoroughly ruined. Stains of thirium that would fade, holes from clenched fists that would not. Connor had tried to apologise, Nines had kissed him quiet again.

And now Nines is curled against his chest, face pressed to his throat and humming quietly as they laze. Both in low power, both pleasantly content.

Connor knows, from what his database tells him, that this is the part of the interaction where they part ways. He thanks Nines for a lovely time, maybe they shake hands, maybe they share a kiss, but then he leaves and they don’t mention this again. Or they do, and they set up another interaction, and they pretend that sex is all it is.

That this was just Nines helping him clear his head, that the gentle affection thrumming through their interface was something to ignore. Amanda would tell him yes, that was exactly what all of this was, a liaison for his benefit and nothing to dwell on. Stick to the mission.

But they were deviants, and free, and the mission was whatever they decided.

For now, curled around Nines, legs tangled together, fingers entwined, Connor thinks the mission is simple. Stay with Nines.

**Author's Note:**

> would you believe I started this fic back in like August? then lots of things started happening and this got back burnered, until now! 4 months later and Connor finally gets the dicking he deserves and I get the service top Nines I crave. win-win in my book.
> 
> So thanks for reading, hope you had a good time. Drink some water, stay safe out there, and as always, Fuck David Cage.


End file.
